Frothy Goodness

I possess mad frothing skills, it seems.  And not the frothy-about-the-mouth rabid fury kind, either.  Nope.  This evening, though the timing for caffeine is less than opportune, I finally got around to trying my Mr. Coffee Espresso Maker: the only Mother's Day present on my request list.  To be fair, I must share the credit with the machine itself -- besides touting the removable drip tray and it's ability to afford me home-brewed espresso drinks (double shot soy latte for me), the box label boasts of the "powerful milk frother." For once, false advertising claims are nowhere to be found; we'll leave that to Skechers and Nutella (as if anyone actually believed that there were miracle shoes that would alter the planes of your buttocks with little effort, or that a rich creamy chocolate-hazelnut spread had any health benefits other than to please the palate and provide quick sugary carbs).  My daughter, the married one (I have to admit, kinda fun to say that), takes great umbrage with these high dollar lawsuits over what she deems stupid and idiotic on the part of the consumers.  My explanation of the legalities and business parameters didn't sway her in the least.  She's one tough practical cookie, that one.  Ooh!  And cookies are great for dipping in coffee!  Not that  . . . I'm saying . . . I'd dip my sweet daughter . . . into a scalding cup of . . . er, coffee . . . 


Thanks to my frothy success (which I shared with my husband) the fatigue of the day has been banished clean away, the cobwebs in my brain swept away, by my first attempt at Espresso Brewing 101.  I'll be good for the next several hours.  But midnight is generally my bedtime hour of choice.  Except when I'm operating on four or five hours of fitful sleep from the previous night.  Still, what's a coffee-craving girl with curious experimentation on the brain to do?  The darned thing has been sitting in its box on the kitchen counter for five days.  It simply wouldn't be right to allow it to remain idle into the weekend.  (I'm thinking that's an unspoken rule in the Gift Receiving 101 course.)  Alas, there is a conspicuous lack of pictures to chronicle my maiden voyage through the narrow channels of grind-brew-and-steam as my nerves kept me on edge.  The process reminds me more of a ceremony than simple coffee making.  Like the Japanese Tea Ceremony.  And I so wanted to get it right.  Without steaming my face off.  The engineers at the Sunbeam Corporation ain't joking when it comes to that innocuous-looking steaming arm; I think one could reasonably cook a salmon fillet beneath it with a bit of practice.  Near the end, overcome with excitement and the fear that I had failed and wasted all that ground coffee, I did grab the arm and burn two fingers.  Only mild first degree burns.  A little souvenir of my journey into specialty coffee ala my own kitchen.


I caught my husband gazing at my new toy after setting it up for me.  When I asked what he was doing, he said he was checking out its profile.  "No," I said with sure knowledge, "No, you're not.  I know what you're thinking.  You're thinking that you can't believe the day has come where your WIFE [who eschewed coffee with a righteous passion until a little over two years ago] needed her very own specialty coffee maker!"  His grin at my blistering insight said it all.  And it is a wonder.  I've gone coffee mad.  Making up for all of that lost time.  Moving quickly up the ranks from simple bold grinds and espresso (I'll never lose my affection for espresso!) to an exploration of alternative coffee brewing with bright and lemony beans from places like Guatemala.  I know about burr grinders and single-bean origin and Chemex versus French Press.  In fact, yesterday I attended a class -- this consisted of the head barista at Just Love Coffee Roasters here in the 'boro standing at a table and walking through the steps of the Chemex brewing process with me and one of my Earth Divas, Gayla, while our music leader from Cross Point looked on -- which kicked me up the coffee snob ladder just a tad.  Not only did we learn something quite interesting and new, but we also drank the results of our brewing AND received as a lovely parting participation gift our very own bag of whatever coffee bean our java-loving hearts desired.  Their organic fair-trade bags of roasted goodness are worth their weight in gold.  That's not too over the top now, is it?  Have I plunged over the edge of reason on this topic?


Anyhoo, of that session I do have pics.  And my imbibing of roughly 24 ounces of smooth dark nectar of the Gods had my bladder working overtime the remainder of the afternoon.  Nice, huh?

This is my mom's set-up.

Her ownership of said coffee maker is what led to my desire for ownership.

The Starbucks frothing cup did NOT come with the machine.

My mother is a very good influence when it comes to such things as this.

 Our young java sensei.

 Gayla taking notes on the finer points of Chemex brewing.

She actually owns the apparatus.  

I attended at her behest.

I love it when she behests.

That's what Earth Divas do.

We behest.

 Weights and careful measures make all the difference.

I'm loving the orange scales.

And the two guys chatting on either side of the Chemex in the background.

 I tried to suggest the pretty beehive pots would make a lovely parting gift.

At around $60 a pop, that would be a NO GO!

Timing is also crucial to the process as seen here.

 Here you see the 'blooming' before the actual pour.

This step comes after wetting the extra-thick filter.

The grounds are actually raising.

And expelling gas.

Sounds like someone I know.

 Here comes the brew!

 The first precious ounces of bright and earthy yumminess . . . 

 They roasted a batch of beans while we were there.

Oh, the scents that wafted about the airspace!

Titillating to the nose.

 Pulling back for a look-see at the roaster and roast-master.

 Gayla exercising what she learned.

Wetting the filter.

I still yearn to own that little pot!

 The weigh-in for my bloom: we were instructed to sit between 50-100 grams.

I chose 81. 

 Divisible by 3.  

One of my favorite OCD numbers.

 The weight of the final pot.

I hit it perfectly.

Another favorite number divisible by 3.

And 4+5=9.

9 is also divisible by 3.

Wait.  

Have I mentioned the whole thing about numbers divisible by 3?

And how their numbers add up to other numbers divisible by 3?

And that's how to tell if a large number is divisible by 3?

Have I divided you into sleep yet?

Or simple confusion?

 We also learned the art of Japanese iced coffee.

THAT was a flavor treat.

 Her name is NOT Jason.
Her name is Kim.

But her apron was MIA.

I'd like one of their aprons.

Stuffed inside that little teapot.

 We hope to see future classes in larger numbers.

But we aren't complaining!

Check out those free bags of coffee.

Things of beauty.

I went with the Tanzanian Peaberry.

Gayla's favorite.

Born at the feet of Mt. Kilimanjaro. 

Josiah and his girlfriend simply make a great digital impression.

Had to share.

He's drinking Chemex-brewed coffee in that Starbucks insulated mug.

We had to share that, too.

A Day of Hope

Over the weekend, I participated in what I hope will become an annual event for the community of Murfreesboro: the Day of Hope down on our town square.  The Way of Hope is the homeless program which falls into the category of "overflow shelter" about which I wrote in a previous blog entry.  Local churches provide the shelter, and staff one night a month, for a mix of women, both single and with children.  Brad, the founder and organizer of the whole shebang, loads up a trailer behind his SUV with air mattresses, bedding, toiletries and the personal belongings of the program's participants, and along with volunteer drivers (something I enjoy each time our turn comes up), shuttles these ladies to and from their home for the night.  Our church has had the distinct privilege of providing a safe and comfortable place for The Way of Hope several times a week at times.  It's fantastic to offer our facility for such a pressing and vital need as this one.  Though we be small in number, we try to provide big when we can.  I love that about Cross Point and it's members.

So, this Day of Hope event on Saturday was a somewhat hastily put together affair.  The day before Mother's Day popped up as available a month in advance and had to be snapped up or lost.  Brad pours his energy MORE than full-time into his fledgling program -- not yet a year old -- and supplemental staff is non-existent at this time.  His wife and kids support him and The Way of Hope to the best of their ability outside of their regularly scheduled family life.  In light of these facts, I'd say the light turnout, without the benefit of an advertising blitz or several months of advanced planning, was a success.  A template of what will, and what won't, work in the years to come.  But the ladies had a blast, aiding in selling drinks and snacks at their booth, along with modeling gowns in the big fashion show which brought the day to its elegant, if somewhat sodden, end.  Their children fully enjoyed face painting, free candy and the run of the place.  Our worship leader, along with other musicians including his lovely and quite talented girlfriend, played live music in the midst of off-and-on rain.  Vendors rented space to display and sell their homemade arts and crafts: I made a few nifty purchases, including pretty owl earrings and a clever purse woven from 'yarn' made from recycled plastic bags.  (The purse is a tardy birthday gift for one of my readers and dear friends -- so I can't post a picture of it quite yet.)  Churches set up 'booths' to increase awareness of the role they play in supporting The Way of Hope, including ours.

My participation allowed me to spend a good part of my day with my friend and pastor, Rodney, and his Earth Diva of a wife, Gayla.  Have I mentioned just how very much I love, respect and admire these two dynamic people?  (Gayla can know but please don't tell Rodney.  He struggles with ego problems.  Just KIDDING!)  My married daughter joined me later in the day for the fashion show.  My hubby dropped off an gyro platter for my lunch.  And there were those delightful Mayer lemon cookie thins I brought along to dip in the Starbucks coffee I bought at The Way of Hope's booth.  Not to mention the shopping, picture taking, kid watching, and overall enjoyment of the mild weather (before the late afternoon drizzle) and visitors to the venue.  Oh!  There was even a friendly dog.

During a lull in the fashion show, created by rain and a need to move music equipment and usher the coiffed and dressed-to-the-nines ladies to shelter, Brad asked if anyone wanted to speak about their involvement with the program.  One of the younger Way of Hope women took the stage and gave her story.  And then I raised my hand.  To the small crowd huddled against the mercurial spring weather of Middle Tennessee, with a canopy of sycamore above and the catwalk and red carpet below, I told of my own history with homelessness.  How the help of strangers, through churches and various social programs, carried me and my family through rough times.  They provided havens without judgement.  I talked of how I understood what it was like to be a child in such circumstances.  And how as an adult I realized the difficulties of being a parent in such dire straits.  I told them that I was one of the many faces of the homeless; who would ever know if I didn't share the fact?  I expressed the need that exists for society to realize that the homeless are real people, not simply faceless persons, deadbeats, abusers of the system.  I pointed out that communities are hurt when we don't incorporate the support of homeless and abused women and children into the fabric of our overall social plan.  Especially communities where churches play an integral part in the structure of a town or city.  I felt the responsibility and privilege of my words, my history, my participation.

It really was a pretty fabulous day, quirks, rain, time issues and all.  Next year, I'd like to be more involved in the planning and running of the Day of Hope event because I believe it is important.  Important enough to warrant a group effort to aid a man and his dream of a program to build upon its mission and its success.

And now, here are the pictures to prove it that I didn't simply make this whole thing up!

 Rodney and The Dog

 Vendor Alley and Shoppers

 Brad, doing what Brad does . . . 

 My Cross Point Co-Horts: AKA "The Dynamic Duo"

 Mister Lytrel -- My Son's Biggest Fan!

 Lytrel's Little Brother and His Sucker

 I Need to SEE This Shot!

 Some Things Still Are Free!

 Me and My Feet Making the Red Carpet Safe.

 Setting The Stage

 Sound Check

 The Gathering Crowd

 Musicians Taking Cover

 This Woman Moved after Katrina.  

She is Recovering from Addiction.

She Asked that I Post a Picture: She's Looking for her Son.

She Wants Forgiveness and A Second Chance.

 Josiah Getting Into the Meat of the Song!

 The Guitarist: One Cool Dude

 The Fair Maiden of the Keyboard

 One of The Way of Hope Ladies Sang for Us.

 And Here Come our Models . . . 

 Sashaying Across the Red Carpet . . . 

 Looking Elegant and Happy . . . 

 Working that STRUT!

 Lytrel's Gorgeous Mom . . . 

 And Here They Are: The Reason for This Day.

 Even Their Children were In The Act: Handsome

 She WORKS This Dress, Doesn't She?

 And SHE is Totally Working the Cuteness Angle!

 And Then Came Round Two of the Rain.

Not Good for Gowns or Weaves, My Friends!

 Ready for Her Close-Up.

 Brad Singing His Heart Out: The Way of Hope Song.

 As Each Women Left the Stage, She Carried a Sign.

One Side Expressed her "before . . . "

 And the Other Side Expressed her "after . . . "

 The Silence, Punctuated by Only The Simple Words on Cardboard . . . 

 Spoke Volumes.

 It Was Powerful . . . 

 Heartbreaking . . . 

 Hopeful . . . 

 And In The End . . . 

 TRIUMPHANT!

Say HELLO to Brad and His Extended Family.

A Success Story Still In The Making.

 

The Episode

Oh, where to begin?  There was this little episode of alarm which struck fear at my core when I thought my mother had -- perhaps -- fallen and couldn't get up . . . or worse, last week.  All because she didn't answer my calls within the space of an hour in the late morning AND there were no Facebook posts, comments or messages of any kind bearing her name in that same span of morning time.  The office staff for the apartment building offered me no assistance: a recording informed all callers that from Wednesday to the following Monday they were unavailable.  Though I thought my iPhone directory held phone numbers for a couple of mom's friends, nary a one could I find in my hasty name search.  I called the girls at work after texting an alert and prayer request to my sisters and brothers.  They rushed home to accompany me to mom's apartment, roughly a half hour from doorstep to doorstep.

By then, my wonder had bloomed into full-blown worry of the type I generally never experience where my self-sufficient mother is concerned.  (Though there WAS that one time two winters ago where I thought I killed her when I tipped her over in the walker as I pushed her up a handicap accessible ramp.  Let's not think about that.)  Yes, I've taken care of her after surgeries and ran shopping errands for her many a time, but the woman still feeds the birds, waters her plants, helps her neighbors and gets around pretty good, even with all of her aches and pains.  She manages her medical appointments and pays her bills on time.  Her potato salad and apple cake still do the belly just right in terms of comfort and flavor!  So, to find myself boo-hooing on the phone to my younger sister, in tears as I prepared for whatever I might find when I arrived at mom's place, was a strange coming-of-a-certain-age moment.

"Are you crying?" she asked me.  "Maybe a little.  Yes.  I am.  Something could have happened to her!" I hiccuped.  I realized my mother's mortality concerned me greatly.  I realized we really had yet to have a serious discussion on how all that would play out, though we did talk about advanced directives once and which grandkid would get her Starbucks mug collection in the event that she went to be with Jesus.  AND I realized I needed to get the names and numbers of her good friends programmed into my smart phone!

Lest I sound over reactive or absurdly panicky, I'll have you know I did realize she could have stepped out to assist someone in need and had no time for phone or computer.  But certain stars in my field of vision aligned and collided, creating an opening for the worry that us grown-up kids harbor about our aging parents.  Especially when they live alone and away from us.  Especially when they develop physical ailments which cause pain and limited mobility.  Especially when we begin to realize their frailty, their vulnerability, their dependence upon us despite the lives of independence they still lead.

So, anyway, long story short, the girls and I are in the Yukon, out on the road, maybe a mile from home.  The ol' iPhone rings.  It's my mother.  My display informed me of this before her voice confirmed it.  "Hello?  Gloria?  Rebekah said I should hurry up and call you because you were worried.  I'm okay."    My sister thought to call my mother's cell phone.  I hadn't.  Why?  Because I knew she hardly ever carried it or kept it on unless she came into town.  My knowledge of her had limited my ability to check every square inch of this unfolding little family drama.  Wow!  Turns out she wasn't feeling well in the morning, so she rested.  No computer.  Then, a security system guy needed office access.  Mom, the night/assistant manager of her building let him in and hung around while he did what needed doing.  That simple.  Which is usually the case.  But I've experienced the unusual.  And I love my ma.  Hence, 2+2 equals possible emergency.

The very next morning, mom posted on Facebook with a nod to all three sisters.  Alerting us to her well-being.  Thanking us for our love and concern.  Briefly outlining the previous day's confusion.  And her words prompted me to see how, as we humans age, we don't always think that our loved ones may panic if they don't hear from us.  Because we know we are all right, even if we don't announce it to the world.  We don't expect folks to sit around, worrying over whether we are safe or not, whether we're alive or injured or dead.  And then something like this happens and everyone realizes that the playing field has changed, the positions have reversed, and a time out is appropriate while a new game strategy is agreed upon.

This I can promise: I'll raise the roof again if I have to do it.  If Facebook or e-mail or cell phone or land line or friend can't assure me that my mom is alive and kicking, me and my trusty iron horse will RIDE!!!

Pictures, Pigs . . . and Politics?

I should be blogging.  Better yet: writing.  There IS a difference.  It's not simply semantics.  (We won't get into that here.)  But instead I am distracted by pictures.

Take these, for instance.  Our Quill.  The kitten-cat.  As you'll notice, the cone is missing.  And has been for almost a month.  Glorious.  Makes my heart sing for her.  In these shots, she had hopped up into my lap for a cuddle and nap during the beginning of American Idol.  Notice that she's not watching it.  Her eyes, so wide, almost startled, definitely captivating, called out for my camera.  So, I snapped a series with her attention caught by the green focus light and the lens cap floating just out of lens shot.  When I uploaded these to check them out, I noticed in the top shot that she appears . . . well-l . . . not to put too fine a point on it . . . but . . . DEAD.  Is it possible to both like a picture and be disturbed by it?  I say, "Yes.  Yes, it is."  That's the difference between a snapshot and a brush with something more artful.  Art evokes feeling, positive or negative, but never indifference.  I am most certainly NOT indifferent to this photo.  Oh, and notice that the top of her nose seems to be made of dark brown polished leather.  So much texture going on.

Her she appears to have been resurrected from her momentary brush with death.  Phew!  We can't handle another deceased feline so soon after the passing of our beloved Fabio.  Sigh-h-h . . .

Honestly, there are any number of topics upon which I could choose to land the ol' blog topic dart.

For instance, just today, Obama announced to the world that he personally supports gay marriage.  One of my Facebook friends had a status post which gave one reason to pause as to possible political motive of a different kind [other than procuring the vote of another population segment while further isolating the far right] when he wrote:  "Well, at least we know he isn't Muslim."  It was rather clever.  But is it actually funny?  Humor often springs from the fount of fear and serious concern.  So, I guess it can couch seriousness in a bed of laughter.  And be both funny and somber.  I, for one, have not ever worried that Obama was a Muslim.  I've not even worried whether he was genuinely Christian.  Because even the genuine 'practicing' Christians who make it that far are so far compromised as to be less than a stellar model for my faith.  And I've known plenty of Christians who've made unwise choices; plenty of non-Christians with compassion and wisdom who have made solid choices.

And the future of our country's policies have very little to do with whether I continue to believe in Christ, whether I continue to grow in Christ, whether I continue to share the love of Christ.  I'll out myself right here and declare my Independent voting status.  I'll further reveal that I believe in the separation of church and state though I'm up for praying in school if everyone is in agreement.  My Christian faith does not implore me to bash the non-believing about the head and shoulders with the big ol' bat of "THOU SHALT."  Christ doesn't promise me that the government will be my security or have the answers to morality.  He does state that I should "render unto Caesar."  I vote.  Which is my right and duty as a citizen.  I could also choose not to vote.  Which is also my right.  But then I feel my voice is dampened due to my lack of participation.  Flawed two-party, high-monetary-stakes process though it is.

And as far as the whole homosexuality issue goes?  Whether your religious belief states that such sexual inclinations are sinful and go against God, or not, my God reminds me that He watches over even the sparrow.  As a citizen of a country, a gay or lesbian American deserves healthcare, the right to love, the right to benefit from the taxes he or she pays the government which paves the roads over which we all drive and funds the public schools to which many of our children go.  They are people, folks.  Human beings.  Children with parents and uncles and siblings.  I would hate to be denied such basic human rights and needs as those purely on the basis of my Christian faith.  Churches who feel it goes against their tenets and puts them in sin's path, should also be allowed the religious right to deny a gay or lesbian couple a marriage ceremony through their institution.  There will be plenty of churches that don't feel that way and will welcome the opportunity to officiate a wedding.  And the opposing sides will battle on.

Since I've stumbled into this bramble patch, I might as well add one final note before some of you decide to quit reading my blog.  The issue here, to me, is more personal than political.  Not that there is any room for doubt that there are politics a-whirlin' and a-swirlin' here.  But for President Obama, in this modern world, with insights and experiences many have not had, with children whose friends have same-sex parents and see it as perfectly normal and acceptable, he decided to quit riding the fence.  He became a role model for his children based on his beliefs as a man and parent.  He stopped opting for the safe play.  He left the gray area and stepped into the black and white of the issue.  Whether you agree with the issue upon which he made his stand, whether you like the man or not, whether you be Republican or Democrat or Independent, you've got to be able to step back and just admire the purity of the highest politician in the land actually taking a solid stance on a hot topic without spin.  It's refreshing.  Shocking even.  And risky.

What a surprise.

So, with that, I'll bid you good night.  And leave you with yet a few more photos which have absolutely nothing to do with the preceding paragraphs.

I miss my son-in-law.  He has very talented and useful toes.  Prehensile in action.  The newlyweds are seen here opening their cards and tallying up their loot.  This mother finds them altogether happy and TOO CUTE for mere words.

    
I visited a small specialty butcher and cheese shop in Nashville with my Earth Divas back in January of this year.  While there, I interviewed one of the owners behind the counter, recording our discourse on my iPhone.  One of the many recordings to which I never return but collect like kids collect sports cards, Legos and insects.  Of course I took companion pictures.  And this one below is my favorite.  It's a zampone.  Literally, a stuffed pig's foot, or trotter.  This particular creation originated from a Mangalitsa pig.  The breed is what's referred to as a 'lard-type' pig.  (I hadn't realized there were pigs who were NOT lardy.)  The fat has special qualities, which, interestingly enough, allow it to be whipped like cream!  Mmmm, pie anyone?  I'm including a link if you harbor a further interest.  I found it fascinating.  But then again, I find many things fascinating.  And I did spend time at a hog farm where my Uncle Dan worked in Alaska when I was a very little girl.  Arnold the Pig was their champion hog; I loved Arnold the pig.  I rather like pigs.  Not so much to eat.  But I have been known to eat them as bacon or barbecue.  Sorry, Wilbur!

Click here to bone up on what makes Mangalitsas so unique and tasty.

Of ALL the rears that Hank the Wonder Pup could ever choose to sniff, this one seems risky.  Wondrous though he may be, I'm not altogether sure how smart he is.  He learns his commands and tricks well enough.  But in the common-sense smarts area he may be slightly lacking.  Perhaps his exuberant Labrador Retriever nature is the problem.  I mean, he's afraid of the baby gate in the laundry room, for Pete's sake, but not a husky Doberman Pinscher?!

My son's wrestling team had their banquet over this past weekend.  Coach Ramsey called up each boy and had something genuinely thoughtful and honest to say about each one.  Here is Zachary at his turn. He's truly overwhelmed, eh?  I keep waiting for his smile.  But it never came.

Now, THIS kid was happy.  Cheery.  Thrilled, in fact.  He couldn't QUIT smiling.  And several other boys grinned and cheesed it up when their turns came.  The awards come next.  Maybe if Zachary receives an award, the smile will appear.  Let's see.  Shall we?

And for the second year in a row, the award for Most Improved For The Season goes to:
ZACHARY VALDEZ!  Come on up here, boy!

If you're waiting for the smile.  Keep on waiting.  Maybe by next year it'll show up.  Turns out he was tired . . . and a bit uncomfortable in front of the crowd.  Figures.  He hams it up, practically begging for an audience when one isn't around, but freezes when one is provided ahead of time.

And, as we started our picture series with a cat, thus so we will end with cats.  This group of diners was enjoying their breakfast on the porch of a small house situated next door to my mother's apartment building.  I had just started out on my walk and upon seeing this scene, raced back to mom's for my camera.  They're all getting along so well in the midst of their focused grubbing.